In the Wake of Night
by Ruralstar
Summary: Episode tag for 509 "These Ties That Bind". Cristina's thoughts before and during her encounter with Owen on her front steps.


In the Wake of Night

Doctor Cristina Yang stood in the hospital lobby and looked out through the big glass doors into the dreary dawn. An adamant hypochondriac, an undiagnosed epileptic and the interns practicing a decidedly ghoulish form of the board game Operation on one another, had left her physically and emotionally spent. She would not have been a bit surprised if Number Two's nose had glowed bright red when his epidural wore off and Intern Four-Point-Two removed his catheter with all the grace of a high school biology student on crack. That menial task was only the first of many indignities she intended to inflict upon them for being so reckless. Eight hours of sleep would do wonders for her creativity and guarantee that they would never forget their ill advised surgical venture.

The clamor of announcements, equipment and groggy morning voices disappeared abruptly as Cristina stepped through the doors. In her own way she was just as reckless as the interns. Not that she would, or could, ever admit it to them. Her career was all about the medicine with barely a pause to consider the person behind the name on the chart. No time to lead the 'babies' by the hand, no patience for their fumbling ways. Just easier to do the job herself and move on. Sadie's botched appendectomy cast a disconcerting clarity on Cristina's faults as a teacher, and the weaknesses in her friendship with Meredith. She hated failure in any form and she hated being angry at one of the few people she could trust.

Cristina walked carefully across the visitor parking lot and out to the street, which curved around the hospital and crossed in front of her apartment. The cracked pavement was slippery with a skim of ice that would not melt until the sunlight cleared the surrounding high rises. She concentrated on keeping her footing and tried not to shiver. Sleepy oblivion devoid of well-meaning idiots with scalpels beckoned. Cristina was certain she would not find rest until mid-morning however. Too much had happened over the last twenty four hours. She yearned for just five minutes that did not contain a single thought about solo surgeries, divided loyalties or a certain charismatic, conflicted Attending. Rounding the corner Cristina stopped dead, her teeth coming together with a sharp click.

Doctor Owen Hunt sat on her front step, looking at the ground with his hands clasped between his knees. Small, strong hands whose fingers moved with amazing speed and dexterity no matter the task. Cristina cast a weary look to the brightening heavens. She had felt their touch, both gentle and rough. Lingering memories of sensation sent a warm flush to her cheeks. She flinched at the heat and turned her face into the breeze blowing up the street. Fatigue had addled her wits; at least that was a safer conclusion than the more obvious reality of Hunt's affect on her body and brain. She knew there was more to the man than his hands. There was darkness that simmered just beneath the surface. Hours earlier his fractious emotions had boiled over into a kiss that neither of them had expected. Now, as then, it was her choice to walk away or stand her ground.

Cristina shook her head. Two confrontations in less than twelve hours was probably more than either of them could stand, yet here he sat. After Hunt's explanation of his discharge and return to the states she thought she understood who he was. A series of altercations over a mangled patient followed by a passionate outburst in the trauma center proved just how little she actually knew about this complicated man. Experience could so easily lead to indifference. Hunt refused to let anything stand in the way of dedication to duty, while never forgetting the spirit inhuming the flesh beneath his hands. Cristina could respect that, she could learn from it, but she would not bend for him. Never again. Not to_ any_ man. Sharing the secrets of her childhood was a way to prove that she was not the unfeeling automaton Hunt claimed. At least that was her intention when she shut the door and sat down across from him in the on-call room two weeks ago.

It had not turned out that way.

Cristina sighed and glanced to her right. Hunt had shifted position. He was now half-hidden, his back to the wall and his arms crossed. She shoved her hands into her pockets to avoid the chill and stared moodily at the sidewalk.

Somewhere between receiving a lecture on doctor patient relations and telling one of her deepest secrets something significant had changed. Cristina had glimpsed a shadow of the Owen Hunt that had first come to Seattle Grace. That man was professional but playful in demeanor. He was quick to assess, confident in action, honest but unfailingly gentle in words. He barely knew her but their first kiss penetrated to places no one had reached since Burke. Perhaps never in her life if Cristina were to be blatantly honest. She wanted more in spite of the instinctive protests that spilled out of her mouth. He knew it. She suspected he had known it since asking her to finish stapling the laceration on his leg. The thought irritated and intrigued her in equal measure. No one read Cristina Yang so easily. At least no one ever had. When she walked out of Joe's Bar last night she was looking to bridge the gap. To get back some part of that initial spark by showing him that his words and deeds had made an impression. He needed to know it as much as she needed to tell after the death of trauma victim Timothy Miller. It was no longer about bending but rather a melding of minds. She dare not think beyond the apology poised on the tip of her tongue.

A chill shimmied down Cristina's spine. Even in memory she could not think of him as anything but Hunt or Doctor, never Owen. But it was _Owen_ who spun around with a wild, lost look in his glassy, blue eyes. _Owen_ who forced her across the width of the alley, his voice a whisper so tense and pained she could feel the force of it even before he pinned her to the wall. _Owen's_ hips pressed against her, his lips tasting of iron and Scotch, his hand rising to cup her cheek with unexpected tenderness. Fear and need intermingled with the violence and her hands were suddenly exploring the soft skin at the nape of his neck. The kiss evolved as control of the situation shifted from him to her. A pause, and he reached for more but she pulled away. The desire to help him was instinctive and powerful but now was not the time. She made the choice to walk away in spite of the dull ache in her chest and the look of utter devastation on his face. She could not be his solace without reciprocation.

Now he was sitting on her front step.

Cristina shook herself and started to walk. The sound of her steps caught Hunt's attention. He turned to face her. She stopped unsure what, if anything, she should expect after his incoherency in the ER parking lot.

"I don't know why I came here," he said with a nervous smile and a look to the ground.

Cristina kept her features neutral. Common sense demanded an apology, though she had ceased to feel brutalized even before she left the alley. Just by being here Hunt had proved his remorse and given her control. She gave him another moment to contemplate the sidewalk before asking, "Do you wanna come in?"

"No. No I don't think that would be appropriate."

Appropriate? Cristina's first impulse was to laugh. The struggle to suppress it a force of will Hercules might have envied. What was appropriate after the kiss in the alley? "Do you want to go someplace else?" she asked, still neutral.

Ernest blue eyes met her brown ones. "No."

The muscles across Cristina's back relaxed. It was too soon to be alone but she did not want him to leave. No matter how complicated things were bound to get between them. Hunt's eyes fell to the ground as she turned and sat on the step. In the distance traffic rumbled fretfully as the city awakened. Cristina laced her fingers beneath her chin and stared straight ahead. Ordinarily silence made her edgy. This was different. She could feel Hunt's gaze traveling up her side, stopping, and then starting again. As if asking permission for something neither of them could quite name. His eyes settled on her cheek, his breath warming the chilled skin.

"I think you're beautiful."

Cristina blinked and turned, catching his soft gaze and holding it. More than a simple _I'm sorry_. All he could give for the moment. This was _Owen_, the man who had kissed her so many weeks ago. The man who could not bear to speak to her or anyone else in the wake of a horror she could not imagine. Cristina dipped her head. He nodded, offering the faintest of smiles before turning towards the street and the warmth of a new day.

THE END


End file.
